


A God Amongst Men

by eatamilkbone



Series: A Deck of Dreville [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Big Neville Longbottom, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Confident Neville Longbottom, Draco's POV, Draco's point of view, Handsome Neville Longbottom, M/M, Second Person, Sex Magic, Tall Neville Longbottom, Top Neville Longbottom, vegan draco malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25550650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatamilkbone/pseuds/eatamilkbone
Summary: Neville Longbottom is a god amongst men
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy
Series: A Deck of Dreville [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765576
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89





	A God Amongst Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReimCai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReimCai/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by the grinding scene in chapter 4 of [Vitiate: A Saccharine Affliction ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553997/)
> 
> Any one that has listened to my podcast will know that I am obsessed with this fic. There's even going to be a _whole_ episode on it with my real time reactions as I read back through it. 
> 
> Both fics are very, very different. But Draco grinds Neville in both of them, and Neville is a unit of a man in both too.
> 
> [You can listen to the **Bone and Bea Slash Cast** here](https://linktr.ee/boneandbeaslashcast)

Being around this many happy, tipsy people can make anyone feel good. It can make _you_ feel good. It _is_ making you feel good.

You walk around the house and the garden, speaking to friends and strangers idly, trying to avoid the sun. At some point Weasley toasts Harry and Ginny for their fifth wedding anniversary and everyone shouts congratulations, and so do you. And you’re happy for them.

You’re accosted by Luna at about 5:30, and you let her chat your ear off, because Luna is everyone’s favourite friend; always kind, always on your side, always your advocate.

Then, at about 7:30, it’s time for a rest away from the heat of the garden, and so you go inside to the kitchen where the coolness greets you, and you smile into it.

You make for the ice bowl and fill a new glass up with cubes before you make your way to the gin and tonic by the sink.

And when you turn around, he’s there.

Longbottom.

You haven’t seen him in years and so the sight of him is quite shocking. It’s shocking because he has all the graces of a man who has spent the last eight years on the south coast of the continent; he’s dressed sharply, his white shirt struggling against his muscled, tattooed arms and chest, and fucking Merlin alive, his thighs are so perfectly sculpted and begging for attention in his grey trousers. You can imagine him in gyms, sweating, building that body.

It’s quite the contrast from the Neville you knew in school. Quite the contrast indeed.

His tanned skin looks warm to the touch, because of course he has tanned skin and his forearms are showing, and they’re huge and hairy. His hair style is short on the sides and back, and long on top, swept back; it’s a suave Italian style; you saw it in a magazine.

He’s leaning against the countertop with one hip casually, so fucking casually, as if nothing in the world could faze him, talking to Seamus, with a tumbler of clear liquor and ice in his hand and smiling.

Oh dear Salazar; he’s so bloody tall. Easily six foot four.

And he is handsome enough that you think men must pray to him.

And it makes you feel so inadequate. Namely because you used to bully the fuck out of him and now he’s there oozing confidence, appearing so much more accomplished than you, so much more supreme than you physically. You want him to notice you and it’s all so, so, so haunting.

But he hasn’t noticed you. It’s like you don’t exist, you being one of three people in the room. So you think it is the perfect time for you to get away before the hurt of not matching up to him overcomes you, because it’s Neville Longbottom. It’s Neville fucking Longbottom who has you so caught up!

You’re practically ogling him. And you have to leave because if you stay you’ll be caught ogling. And you have a fiance and you must, must, must keep yourself out of trouble. You must keep your mind focused on the man you love and not have needy thoughts about Gryffindors you used to torment.

You turn to make your way out of the kitchen and go back outside but you collide with someone coming in and your drink goes everywhere. It’s all over you, it’s all over the woman who’s bumped in to you, and you’ve sworn and said an apology and she’s done the same, but all eyes are on you now.

He’s looking at you and you’ve just made a twat of yourself.

You look down at your shirt; it’s soaked through and very sticky.

“Sorry, sorry,” you say to no one in particular because you’re looking anywhere but at the people who are looking at you. You back away into the living room where you floo home and throw yourself into your bedroom to change because you will _not_ be thrown out of your mate’s party by a gin and tonic.

There wasn’t even lemon in it, for Merlin’s sake!

And fuck it. You have the chance now to stand out properly, and for the right reasons, and you are going to get yourself _noticed_ , even if your intentions don’t seem to be originating from any _noble_ reasons.

So you struggle out of your espadrilles and trousers, throw them somewhere, get your shirt off in a flurry, almost ripping it, desperate to get back to the party so you can hide in a corner with Luna and watch him look for you after he’s seen you in your tight, tight black jeans.

So you go for the tight black jeans, a loose black t-shirt, and your black shoes. Dressed in muggle fashions all in black, your paleness shines in the right way.

You’re striking. Your muggle attire will be eye catching. He will _notice_ you.

Whilst it’s not strictly an outfit for a wedding anniversary party it’s also late enough in the evening for it to not be a problem.

So you fuck off back to the party as quick as possible.

And then you _stroll_ through the living room, but he’s not there and neither is Luna, and then you _stroll_ through the hall and through the kitchen but you still see neither of them. And then you find them both chatting merrily under a tree, and Luna sees you and beckons you over and you want to cry.

You want to cry because he was supposed to be the one to come to you. You want to turn your back on them both. But you can’t leave lovely little Luna there waiting and so you are the one to go to her. To go to him.

Under the tree Luna summons a drink for you and you say thank you and smile briefly at Neville fucking Longbottom. He just stands there five inches taller than you, his muscles begging to leave the confines of the crisp white shirt and he's looking at you.

But It’s not a pleasant look. It’s a suspicious scrutiny.

“Hello Luna,” you greet softly, hoping no one notices the way your hand shakes. You hold your glass down by your side, your fingers clasping around the rim. “Neville,” you greet him, your voice coming out apologetic.

“Malfoy,” he says flatly.

Luna doesn’t seem to notice her mistake. She doesn’t seem to notice that Neville hates you, and that you are _frightened_ of Neville and his powerful body and his mysterious (to you at least) absence from the country. And she knows the depths to which you have plunged into depression and guilt over who you were as a youth, but she doesn’t seem to have considered that it might not have been resolved with Neville.

Or maybe she has considered it and that is why, despite the fact that you are wobbly with insecurity and worry, she facilitates conversation. You still feel out of your fucking depth though.

“Draco’s a Strategist,” she tells Neville cheerily, her face a picturesque absence of social awareness.

“Fancy,” Neville says, dismissive. You ache at that.

“Neville is a... “ she turns to Neville, “I can’t remember exactly.”

“I’m a landscape architect,” he tells her with a smile and you nod, giving an encouraging smile.

“Must be fun,” you say, and it’s such a flimsy reply. Merlin, Draco, where have your conversational skills gone? Normally, you are just _darling_ and charming and an exceptional conversationalist.

There’s a pattering of inane chatter between you all for a couple of minutes and then:

“Draco’s fiance couldn't make it tonight, could he?” Luna asks.

“Oh. No,” you reply, blushing. And you know you’re blushing because Neville is standing there and you wanted him to notice you and now he knows you have a fiance which means he is less likely to be interested because you have no sexual appeal. You’re unavailable.

You wonder why that makes your self esteem feel gloopy.

“Why?” Neville asks bluntly, shaking you from your dismay.

You look at him. “He’s on tour.”

“Oh?” Neville asks, a teeny tiny bit interested.

“Yes,” you say without elaborating. You have no desire to show off about Tim, although you normally would. You don’t tell Neville that Tim, your fiance, is touring with his fucking band. Because if you had said it Neville might have asked you about the band and then when you told him that Tim is a member of _Hagwitch_ , and he would have fallen off his hinges with awe, and he might have felt as inadequate as you feel when faced with him.

Instead his eyes sweep over you, judging you and your pathetic answer.

So you judge yourself too and wonder what the hell you were thinking when you slid into those jeans. You wonder what seeing the man you used to bully has done to your sensibilities. You wonder what a miserable idiot you are for being reduced to such an attention seeking siren over Neville Longbottom.

The conversation is dead. Failing.

You excuse yourself with a gracious smile and back away, intending to get a drink and find someone, _anyone_ , to speak to, which doesn’t happen because your journey is interrupted by Harry.

Harry is very drunk. He is giddy and has just turned up the music in the garden and he drags you, quite literally drags you, onto the patio to dance with his wife.

“She loves you more than me,” he jokes as she takes your hand and begins to dance with you.

Harry gets more people involved, bringing Weasley and Granger on to the floor with Bunton soon following, arms wrapped around Nott. Then there is dancing, real dancing, club dancing, the girls getting close to the guys and it’s all so very fun.

Ginny gives you a huff of powdered alihotsy, and you instantly meld with the music and her body. You seem to be passed to someone else and oh god it’s Harry. Harry who just loves to man handle you, loves to be wrapped up in your comfort and you can really, really dance and so you go with it.

The drugs are working. Hermione gives you a sip of her drink, and you don’t know what it is, but it isn’t soft. Astoria Greengrass approaches you, and she’s always fun to party with so you pick her up and spin her around. She holds you close for a bit whilst you undulate with the crowd.

And it goes on, and on. You take more huffs and you’re lost to it all. You go a little overboard because everyone does. It lets you ignore the physical attraction you have to Neville. It helps you avoid acknowledging how much that fact hurts. It helps you pretend that he isn’t even there, and he doesn’t despise you.

The sad thing is, it does none of those things at all, at least not enough to be of any lasting help whatsoever.

Luna drags you off to the bathroom with her when you finally leave the dance floor and giggles at you as she closes the bathroom door, as if you two are on some clandestine mission. She pees and washes her hands and you go use the loo yourself. You two have been like this, comfortable, for years. When you wash your hands she asks you inane questions and you answer but your real focus is on yourself in the mirror.

You look high as fuck.

And stunning.

“I think Neville wanted to speak to you again,” she says dreamily , and the sound of her voice flows over you like a silk blanket covering your senses.

“Longbottom does _not_ want to talk to _me_ ,” you slur, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, yes he does. He wants to say sorry for being rude.”

You scoff and leave the bathroom.

You realize then that you’re too drunk and too high to have anything else to drink or snort, so you stand to the side and let Harry snuggle you for a while, and you do **not** look at Longbottom, and when people start leaving, you head to the floo too.

You make it there and wait in line. When it’s your turn you say your address and you’re gone.

And oh, boy, you are so so drunk. You stumble to the kitchen to get yourself some water and root around for one of those small bottles with the powder that helps you sober up a bit. You get it and you snort it up.

Then you sigh. The room stops spinning. You rub your nose, get rid of the remnants, stopper the bottle and shove it back into the drawer.

You make your way to your bathroom and do what you need to do in there, and then you go to your bedroom and when you're laying naked on your bed, the bed you share with Tim, your fiance, you consider your reaction to Longbottom. You chide yourself for your stupid schoolboy reaction, cringing over your choice to go home and change into clothes that would impress him. You feel scared about what it means to have wanted his attention. You feel bad for Tim.

But you can't help but wank over Longbottom, and his thighs and his face and that hair. You can't help but want him, want to shag him, want to submit to him.

Longbottom.

X

You wake up.

When you go to the kitchen for a coffee, there's a note spellotaped to your cafetiere. It's from Luna; she invites you to a hangover party in her gardens in the early afternoon. You groan at it, but it's Luna and you can't not go to Luna's, especially when she has the decency to let herself into your flat and tape her note to something that you can't miss.

So after a morning of failing to recover from last night you apparate to her gardens.

And in the shade of Luna's odd house, lounging by the oak tree with all your friends, is Neville Longbottom.

He has shades on. He has shorts on. He has a pink shirt on. He looks impossibly cool, delightfully so. He's laughing at someone else’s joke and you wish it was your own. You want to be closer to him, involved in the conversation so you walk briskly.

As soon as you’re noticed by the group Neville lifts his sunglasses and looks you up and down; his gaze holding for a moment on your legs. On your jeans. You didn’t wear those jeans for him this time, did you? No. You wore them because they were there, on your floor, and you picked them up because it was easy. But now you’re grateful that your sense of decorum failed you when you chose to put them on instead of something clean, because Neville Longbottom is looking at you, assessing you, considering you.

“Hello,” you say to the group, looking around the circle of them, breathing in relief when Harry looks up at you and leans up to rub your calf in greeting. You see Neville lean back on his elbows, seemingly unaffected by Harry’s affection and you feel gutted.

And to make it worse the only spot available to sit is by Longbottom. It’s a perfect spot; the one you would have fought for if he wasn’t there, because it’s up against the tree and in the shade and you can lean back and just bask in everything.

So you go to it. But you decide on the way that you won’t talk to him, won’t give him the chance to be rude to you again, to assess you coldly like he did last night. You’ll be charming enough that he won’t ignore you this time. He’ll come to you.

Ignoring him works for a while. You’re wrapped up in the glow of friendship, surrounded by your tribe, drinking Luna’s glazewood laced lemonade and you laugh when Ginny encourages her husband to come sit with you for a while because he obviously wants to cuddle you, she says fondly, and you let him because Harry always needs affection, and you care about him. You stopped trying to analyse it long ago. You just let him paw you.

And when Harry gets up from laying between your legs with his back against your chest, and goes to accost Luna for the same thing, Neville looks directly at you, his sunglasses forgotten.

“Do you always let him do that?” he asks you and you wonder to what end he is judging you for letting your married former enemy lounge against you.

“Always,” you say, challengingly. You lift your chin as if to deflect his judgement of you. Instead he just laughs and shuffles back so he is against the tree as well. It breaks apart the circle a little. You two are somewhat on your own now, even if just by a foot or so and you're isolated from the group, so you become wrapped in the smell of his expensive aftershave and the only way to describe the scent is ‘explicitly intoxicating’.

“Why?” he queries.

“Because he’s Harry Potter,” you say teasingly, “and one can’t deny the Golden Boy.”

Neville chuckles. “Sure, sure,” he says, grinning. “But what does your fiance say about it?”

You just shrug and your teasing demeanor falters. “He doesn’t.”

“He doesn’t mind you getting so close to other men?”

You turn and look at Longbottom straight on. He’s gorgeous, and your heart does a flip, your stomach clenches. You want to believe that his words are innocently curious but they’re not. You can tell they’re not. So you ignore the question hidden behind the seemingly innocent facade and only say, “It depends on the context.”

Under his breath so no one else can hear, Neville says, “What does one have to do to find out what context?” and it makes you vibrate with a thrilling want.

You turn to him, pretending to be aghast at his audacity, but he’s smiling at you. His eyes are dark and his energy is so potently sexual that you are having a hard time even remembering your name. He runs his hand through his hair and you wonder if he’s nervous, but he’s the new and improved Neville Longbottom and you don’t think this god of a being _could_ be capable of experiencing nervousness.

And then you see it. You see the gold band on his finger and you tut at him. “You’re married,” you say, trying to hide your shock by sounding reproachful. You turn away from him and reach for your drink, determined to sink into the heady glow of the summer's day whilst your friends lounge around, chatting idly, recovering. But he moves his hand down in front of him and you can see it out of the corner of your eye.

“I am,” he confirms before dropping his hand onto his big thigh. And then he says something flippant and it makes you laugh. You had no idea Neville Longbottom was funny, and you don’t quite forget that he just came on to you, but you do let him distract you from the rules in place, marital and romantic rules, that forbid both of you from developing something between you and as the day grows long you find you’re quite fond of his confidence.

And fucking, fucking, fucking hell, when he gets up to go sit with other people you feel a little bereft. And when he smiles at other people you feel a little gutted. But when he looks straight at you from across the wide circle, you find yourself thinking that five years ago you would have already gone home with him, his previous rudeness be damned.

Evening settles and Harry and Ginny go home. Soon other people follow, but you don’t notice their goodbye’s because you are focused in on Neville’s occasional glances. You get up to join the smaller circle and partake in their conversation, but this means you’re closer to Neville and soon everyone but the two of you and Luna has gone home, because she’s already home, and she eventually goes in, yawning, telling you goodnight.

And then it’s just you two.

You’re alone with Neville Longbottom, who seems to get bigger and more impressive in your appraisal of him as the sun sets and Luna’s trees and bushes sparkle with dim fairy lights.

“Those jeans…” Neville says idly.

You raise your eyebrows, but secretly you’re glad. The jeans do make you look fantastic and you’re happy that he’s noticed, even though his noticing means you stand on shaky ground.

“Are muggle, yes,” you reply, hoping to diffuse the tension between you.

“And very, very tight.”

You eye him cautiously and consider, just for a second, leaning in and kissing him just to see what happens, but you don’t because that’s wrong. Perhaps. It’s hard to think when you want that big, imposing Neville Longbottom between your thighs. You shake the thought away and it’s gone, hidden away neatly, at least for now. You stand abruptly, and wipe the dirt off your arse and thighs.

“It’s late,” you say sternly. “It was nice seeing you, Neville,” and you turn to walk the short distance to Luna’s gate so you can apparate home, away from that temptation.

You hear him stand too and stride toward you. When he stands next to you you realise how fucking tall he is again and it makes you tingle. “If it means anything at all, Draco,” he says smoothly as he opens the gate for you, “I was very much looking forward to seeing you when I went to Harry’s last night.”

You can’t look him in the eye.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” he continues as you step outside the gate. “I think I was overwhelmed.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you’re overwhelmed yourself, and you think that this is it, this is it, this is the moment where he’s going to kiss you and you’re going to give yourself to him because why wouldn’t you? You can’t think why not, because he’s Neville Longbottom and he’s become one of the most attractive men you have ever seen. And that’s just building upon the fact that he’s one of the strongest, bravest men you have ever met.

And he’s huge, and handsome, and naturally confident in a way you have to fake almost all of the time.

He steps up to you and you smell him and, oh fuck, you are enraptured. His aftershave is stronger when he leans down and whispers in your ear. “Shall I get us a blanket and take us somewhere in the fields, under the stars?”

You let out a breath, trembling. You have no idea what to say.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he promises. He doesn’t touch you. He’s such a fucking gentleman and it makes _you_ want to touch _him_. You lift your hands and rest them on his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your waist, encouraged. “Tell me you want me to take you somewhere,” he urges, pulling you in.

“I can’t,” you tell him seriously, “I can’t do this.”

But you don’t let go and you don’t move back. You just wrap your arms around his thick, muscled neck instead.

“It’s your choice,” he tells you considerately, but he still holds you.

“I want too,” you admit guiltily. The spoken truth shocks you enough that you step away from him several paces and, even though you are so desperate to go to him and let him take you under the stars, you disapparate away.

X

You’ve been in your flat for ten minutes; shaking, regretting not having him, feeling abhorrent because you do want to have him. You consider going back for him. You want Neville Longbottom between your legs, fucking you, giving it to you, and your cock is hard. But you’re surrounded by pictures of Tim and you have to remind yourself that you’re committed to him.

You sit on your sofa, leg bouncing, wanting to go back to Neville fucking Longbottom with his scarred face, his good hair, his thick thighs, his confidence, his bravery; but your train of thought ends there when his head suddenly pops up in your fireplace.

“Can I come through?” he asks. You’re mad, you know it, but with a flick of your wand you allow him to enter. You feel so unsettled by how fucking good he looks. You just wish you were single so you could eat him alive.

He stands and fidgets for a moment and you don’t know what to do.

“Got something to drink?” he asks.

His confidence seems a little reserved all of a sudden, as if the suave bastard hadn’t just propositioned you with a fuck under the stars. His eyes dart around the room and you can’t comprehend all of it, what you have, what you want, what you know you should do, so you walk away, down the hall and into the kitchen and he’s following. “Coffee?” you ask, because there’s no way you’re going to imbibe.

“Sure,” he says. He sits down on one of your island stools and you see it, you really fucking see it, the way his shorts threaten to split every which way with how fucking big his thighs are.

“You’ve got hu-”

“I just wanted to say-”

“Sorry,” you say, letting him go first.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for being a twat.”

“Oh?” you ask, turning around to spell the water to boil on the stove. You smile to yourself. _The jeans worked. They always work._

You turn around and lean against the counter, facing him.

“I interrupted you before,” he says. “What were you going to say?”

You decide to take the risk, because it seems you might have finally, finally, put yourself on even ground with him. Even still, you feel upended by Neville Longbottom looking so…

“Huge.”

“Sorry?” He asks, brow furrowed, swiveling on the stool a bit.

You swallow, and urge the water to boil faster. And then you do it, you say it. “You’re really quite large…”

He chuckles. “As I’ve been told by everyone I’ve seen all weekend.”

“How’d you do it?” You ask, the water starting to boil behind you.

“How does anyone get huge?” he asks teasingly, still swivelling.

“By eating a lot?” you reply and it sounds like you’re saying he’s fat, but you’re not. Not at all. You don’t mean it like that.

But then stills, and he says, “You’re right. I eat a lot. But this,” he lifts an arm and flexes it a little, “is all muscle.”

You turn around and make the coffee, ignoring the body behind you.

“How do you stay so skinny?” he asks. You should be offended, and you start to be, but then he’s continuing on. “I guess you’d have to be to fit into jeans like _that_.” The way he says it does not leave room for misinterpretation.

You’re blushing as you turn around and hand him a cup of black coffee.

“Got some milk?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Soy?” He looks at you strangely. “I’m vegan,” you say.

“Can’t really have a vegan wizard, can you?” he asks skeptically. “All those potions…”

“I do what I can,” you reply a little stiffly.

“So you live off rabbit food?” he quips and you sigh, having been through this argument before.

“No.”

“But that’s how you keep yourself skinny?”

“I have sugar if you’d like some of that?” you say, changing the subject, because this is not the discussion you’d hoped to have about how you get in or _out_ of your jeans and you yearn for his flirtatious prowl towards you.

Neville shakes his head. “This is fine. It will wake me up a bit.” He blows on the cup, cooling the coffee, and it’s adorable how he dips his head to do it, some strands of his hair falling forward a bit. He doesn’t allow any dead air. “Luna said you’re working at the Ministry. As a Strategist, right?”

You nod. “In the DoM,” and it is very clear to you now that you hardly know anything of substance about each other, it’s all just base attraction, and you’re not sure if that makes this easier or harder.

He raises his eyebrows. “I doubt you’re supposed to tell me that.”

You smile slyly at him.

“I’m not an Unspeakable… yet. Then, and only then, will you not be allowed to know what I do.”

He laughs. “Are you allowed to go to work at the Ministry in jeans like that?”

“You seem to have a fascination with these jeans, don’t you?” you say to him and he smiles. He nods. “Why are you here, Neville?” you ask, your throat tight.

“Well, it’s not for the coffee,” he replies.

You roll your eyes.

“I came to say sorry,” he tells you defensively, but he isn’t all that convincing.

“For what?” you ask challengingly.

He doesn’t break eye contact with you, just holds your stare for long enough that you start to look away just as he asks, “Who proposed to who?”

“What?” you ask.

“Did you propose to him, or did he propose to you?” He indicates a picture of you and Tim that you have on your muggle fridge that Tim insisted on, but you secretly love.

You turn to the picture and slowly turn back.

“He proposed to me. Why?”

Neville’s lips twitch into a smile, and he looks down at his cup, and swivells confidently as if he owns the world, and those thighs, those fucking thighs…

“It’s better that it isn’t you going back on a proposal.”

You don’t understand. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” he suggests, standing, forgetting about his coffee.

And oh, yes, you get it now.

“You kept looking at me,” he says, stepping into your personal space. “You kept looking at me like you couldn’t believe I had changed this much, and I liked you looking at me like that. I like having your attention.”

And then he picks you up and despite your surprise you wrap your legs around his waist. He walks with you to your living room and you think _oh good, I can’t do this in the bedroom_.

He sits down on the sofa and you’re straddling him. And it’s Neville Longbottom. You’re straddling Neville fucking Longbottom. And then his hands are on your arse, your small arse in such tight, tight jeans, and he’s squeezing, looking up at you.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he tells you and you obey. He pulls you in towards him and then back away so that your groin moves over his thighs and stomach, and your pert arse is being gripped by his huge, strong hands, and you move with him. He moans. You moan. He repeats the movement once, then once more, and then one of his hands is on the back of your neck and he’s kissing you.

You like it.

You keep rocking and he keeps pulling you in, rolling his hips up with you when you move back. You haven’t ground on anyone like this in years. You feel so young, so hormonal, but it’s so immoral. It’s cheating.

And you start to realise that, but then his tongue slips between your lips, and you forget what you were worried about.

“You’d look so fucking good naked, riding me, but how could I ever take those jeans off of you?” he says. “It would be a sin.”

You feel so gorgeous.

He just keeps moving and moving. Then he says ‘fuck it’ and flips you over so you’re on your back. He wrestles with your belt, your button and your zipper. “Take your t-shirt off,” he demands, and you do it.

He pulls your pants and jeans down to expose your cock and then he’s unbuttoning his trousers and pulls them down, tugging his cock out right there. It’s Neville fucking Longbottom’s long fucking cock!

He has one leg bent beside you and the other on the floor. You’re between his legs and he’s spelling oil into his hand and then slicking your cock up, slicking his up, and then holds them together and fucks you both in his fist.

You want this, so you don’t protest. You just kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and moan into it all. You want his shirt off. You want to see the muscles and the tattoos and the hairy chest. You start unbuttoning it. “If you undress me, Draco, I’ll have to take you to bed,” he says warningly. You wonder how the fuck everything he says and does brings you further into a world of pleasure, the intensity of which you have never known.

You consider fucking him in your bed as an option, but you stop unbuttoning, because the bed is going too far. You know you can’t do that to Tim.

But then Neville looks at you and you see it in his eyes. You see this strong wizard, the war hero, the man who left the country and came back godlike. You see, up close, the scars he has on his face from the Carrows. You see the confidence it took to come here and have you and suddenly you don’t give a shit about the bed or about Tim, so you get the buttons undone in a flash and then you are _there_.

You have arrived, darling.

He’s up and off you and naked within seconds, those thighs exposed, so strong and climbable. He’s a fucking god amongst men. He’s Neville Longbottom and you’re hard for him. He takes off your jeans, _peels_ them off over your slim frame, your shoes and socks discarded.

Then you’re in his arms and he’s brought you into the hall. He asks where your bedroom is and you tell him. Fucking hell you tell him and he takes you right there.

He smells so good. It’s the expensive scent of a man who indulges in designer clothing and holidays in the Algarve. You’re going to be able to smell his aftershave all over your sheets for days.

Once in your bedroom, he lays you back on your bed and is on you immediately; kissing you, he’s kissing you, his heavy body held firmly over yours, his tongue in your mouth, and he sometimes sucks on your lower lip.

His hand slides down your body and nudges your legs open and you don’t resist it, because why the fuck would you? It’s Neville Longbottom, he’s so big and he smells so good and he ignored you and hated you so you felt desperate for his attention and now you have it. Now you have it and you’re not going to let it go, not now.

“I want to finger you,” he says as his still slicked fingers start to slip around your hips and down your arse until he wedges between your cheeks and then it’s there, his finger is there.

“I’d fucking love it if you did,” you say. You wish you were drunk, for a moment, because that could be a good excuse for why you’re cheating on your fiance, but you know wholeheartedly that being drunk wouldn’t matter. You’re here sober and you’d be here no matter what.

He presses his finger in and you’re all for it, then he goes for two because he wants you. He wants to be in you, and he can hardly wait and neither can you.

You are keening as you fuck down on his fingers. His lips are against your neck and collar bones, before he kisses his way down your body and to your twitching cock. He licks the head just as he presses your prostate and fucking hell you moan in a way that you never, ever moan like with Tim.

Probably because it’s Neville. It’s Neville who you bullied and who grew up strong and heroic and then ignored you. And there's something else about him too; something that sets him apart from all the other men you've been with. It's erotic magic, surely. His intuitiveness, his vibe, is too well tuned and you’ve been with enough men to know what’s learned and what’s innate… but he’s just divine. He’s been gifted something by Mother Magic that is rare, and elite.

Fuck, his hands, his mouth, his cock and his body are all the attributes of a god amongst men, so it should be no surprise that he's going to fuck like one too.

“Right,” he says as he fingers you with three of his strong, capable digits; giving you enough of it to get you ready and then he looks down at you. “Got any lube?” he asks. “Left my wand in the lounge…”

Of course you have lube. You have a fucking variety of lubes. An assortment that you and Tim have picked out together. It’s so wrong. So, so wrong what this is going to do to Tim but you still go to _Tim’s_ drawer and get a bottle of the lube you use with him out of it, and give it to Neville _**fucking**_ Longbottom.

He slicks up his cock, and gives you a cheeky grin.

He goes for it and edges into you with your ankles on his shoulders and then you’re done for.

Because, he’s fucking you, yes, but it’s not just his cock that’s in and out of you and pressing against your prostate that starts getting you off. No. It’s also those thighs and those ridiculously large arms, the hands, the hairy chest and stomach that are covered in tattoos of dragons and flowers. His hair, that has fallen into his face, and the way he grunts as he gives it to you. And some kind of thrumming of arousal that seems to complete you on a cellular level. His magic.

You like it. You like it all so, so much.

“You need to be on top of me,” he says frantically, pulling out of you and sitting on the edge of the bed, just at the moment you think what it would be like to ride him. He takes you both to Tim’s side of the bed. And that makes it all the more thrilling. He guides you around so you’re sat on his lap, he’s inside of you, and your legs are around his waist.

And, oh, Godric Bloody Gryffindor! He’s _bouncing_ you up and down. He’s making you ride his cock. You need not put in any effort at all, but you do; you put your arms around his neck and lean your head back so he has access to your nipples.

He takes it. He sees the bloody chance and he takes it. He sucks one nipple and then the other, and then he stands up, and with your legs hung over his thick arms, he fucks you standing up.

His cock, his absolutely beautiful cock, is thick and rock solid and it fills you so much that you can feel your pleasure starting to thrum. He moves you up and down his cock fast and you moan so loud. This, being fucked like this, is a first for you.

And you love it.

“You like me fucking you like this, don’t you?” he asks you, holding you up like you weigh nothing. “You’re gonna want that cock played with though, aren’t you, Draco?”

You nod. “Yes.”

And then there is the sensation of a hand gripping your cock and wanking you at the exact speed and pressure that gets you off when you’re on your own. It’s the same technique you used on yourself last night when you thought of him.

But there’s no hand there. Just his magic.

“Like that?” he asks lasciviously. He knows you like it, and why wouldn’t he? You can tell just by the way you are groaning ‘yes, yes, yes’ over and over with your head thrown back.

And then the absolutely unimaginable happens. He turns you around to the bed, lays you down, and that sensation of being wanked never stops. He gets you on your hands and knees, glides his cock into you and slips two fingers in beside it, stretching you. It might just be the most erotic thing that has ever happened to you.

You think you speak, but you’re not sure. It’s all so naughty, so raw, so intensified by the fact that it’s Neville Longbottom, who you were awful too, who grew up and made you weak with envy and want, who offended your ego.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he tells you, strained, his orgasm building. “I want you so bad, so fucking bad…”

You don’t know what to reply, because you have no way of telling him how you feel or what you think of him because you are at the edge. Right, right, right at the edge and he knows it.

So he stops and the phantom hand job stops too. He lies you back down on the bed softly and you blink with confusion.

He looks at you and laughs. He straddles you again, gets you to wrap your hand around his cock and makes you wank him off until he’s covering you with cum.

You are soaked in it.

You’ve never been with a man who can cum so much and it goes all over you and you _like_ it. There’s bolts and bolts of it, warm, impossibly warm, landing on your skin, on your chest, on your face, in your hair.

He shakes. And then he’s done, left in the afterglow. He smiles down at you and looks impressed with himself, with his load all over you, and leans down to kiss you.

“Do you want me to make you cum, Draco?” he asks lustfully.

“Please,” you reply, cock twitching between you both. He smiles at you, and it’s a mischievous smirk, and you know something is coming and you’re not sure you’re prepared for it.

He gets off you and stands. You’re covered in his cum, in _Neville Longbottom’s cum!_ and his legs, Merlin, those legs are just there, within reach, and you’re hard for them, for him, for being fucked by him.

And you were so close, so close, two more thrusts and you would have cum and so you lay there whilst he studies you, and you feel a spark of irritation.

“Are you going to let me cum at all?” you ask him. It’s a bold move to snap at that absolute fucking unit of a man in front of you.

He smirks. Neville Longbottom _smirks_ at you, and you are so sad you never saw that smirk on his face at school because it promised something dark, smutty and strong. And you would have chased it. Fucking him at school might have been the one thing that saved you from Voldemort and you wouldn’t be lying there with your covered up Dark Mark, and your scars, and your shame.

“No.”

“No?!” you shriek, but you dare not sit up because his cum is going to go everywhere; on the bed, the sheets, the floor. On the bed and the sheets and the floor you share with Tim. But there's so much cum. It’s the hottest thing you have ever been part of and you want to cum, you want your cum mixing in with his but no. The way he looks at you has you pinned. And so you stay laying there.

You tense, suddenly wary. “Have you just fucked me as some sort of retribution?”

“No,” he says, offended.

“Why wouldn’t you?” you ask, manic, cum all over you. And then you’re listing all the reasons why he should be punishing you out loud: Your tattooed left arm. His handsome face and how he has scars there that you were, in part, responsible for him getting. All the times you made him cry. The Remembrall, the tripping hexes and the slights about his family, ( _oh, his poor fucking parents in the Janus Thickey ward,_ you think,) and the mocking of his teeth, and the things you and your friends threw at him, and how you encouraged Snape to humilate him.

“Draco,” he says softly, gaze kind, and of course it’s kind because it’s Neville Longbottom, the sweetest man on earth, “can you please just wait here for one moment whilst I go get my wand. I would like to clean you up and then edge you for the next century. Don’t fucking touch yourself whilst I’m gone,” he adds, and oh god, yes, he’s sweet, of course he is, but he’s dominant and yes, yes, yes, you love it.

And so you lay there, obedient, and at first it’s thrilling because he’s cummed on you and he just left you there, covered, and I mean covered, baby, covered in his cum.

But then it hits you like the fucking Hogwarts Express making haste over England; you just cheated on your fiance. You feel disgusted with yourself because now his cum is dripping down the sides of you onto the bed you share with Tim and you think you’re a horrid, horrid person.

You have to find a way to vanish this fuck from your mind, you think. You have to find a way to get through this. You have to find a way to make sure _no one finds out!_

You have until next Saturday, until Tim gets back, to cover your tracks, pretend it never happened, make sure your friends have no fucking idea. So you sit on the edge of the bed, grab the shirt that was near ruined at Harry’s party, and start wiping Neville’s cum off of you.

The shirt smells like gin, but not lemon no, because Harry Potter isn’t civilised enough to have lemon, but you shouldn’t be slagging off Potter just because you’re livid with yourself.

Then you hear movement in the hall, and you know, you just know, that as soon as he walks into the room, you’re going to want him again. It’s inevitable. And it’s not because you want him to make you cum (not entirely that, anyway). It’s because it’s Neville Longbottom and you’ve just listed all the reasons he should hate you, and he doesn’t. He’s remarkable. He’s a war hero, who sliced the head off Nagini. He’s a pureblood who defied Voldemort in a public arena just at the moment the war seemed won by the Dark. He’s a god amongst men.

As the cum on your face starts dripping onto your thighs, Neville comes back in the room.

“Jesus, Draco, I was only gone two seconds,” he says, running to you and kneeling, his wand in his hand.

He spells you clean then and you’re not so cold or sticky or marked anymore, and sadly but not sadly, if you think about it truthfully to yourself, you want him to cum on you like that again, because it is single handedly the most magnificent thing you have ever seen, or been involved in where sex is concerned

You want all that cum, you yourself want to cum, and you want him between your legs, but you don’t, you remind yourself. You don’t. Because it’s Neville Longbottom, and not Tim. It’s not Tim, lovely Tim who doesn’t fuck you like Longbottom, who isn’t as good as Longbottom in the bedroom and who probably isn’t as good as Longbottom out of it, either.

“This was a mistake,” you say when you’re all clean.

“I don’t think so,” he says firmly, frowning up at you.

You laugh nervously. “You didn’t even make me cum.”

He smirks. “Not yet. I fully plan on edging you all night until your legs are shaking.”

You stare at him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s fun,” he says as if it’s obvious. His expression then moves to a humored contemplation. “And I suppose we _could_ consider it a punishment for nicking my Remembrall,” he chuckles but you don’t respond. You’re just sunk into a stunned blankness. “Should I go?” he asks quietly, and then kindly continues with, “I could suck you off before I go. I don’t want to leave you half done-”

“No!” you say quickly, springing back to life. “Stay.”

He smiles. You don’t know why you asked him to stay. Maybe you can’t be alone right now. Maybe you need someone here for comfort whilst you leave the known world and enter this new, uncertain land.

Because newness is coming, isn’t it? You are more honorable than you were when you last saw Neville in the Great Hall after he had slain Nagini. When he had proven, beyond a doubt, to everyone, that he was always meant for glory and that he, above everyone there, had _overcome_ it all, including you. He had overcome you.

And because you’re more honorable now, you have to do it, you have to leave Tim. You and Tim don’t _do_ other people. You two are not in an open relationship, no. That’s been explicitly stated, time and time again, when he goes on tour, as if _Tim_ might be the one tempted by other people when he’s around the crowds of his adoring fans. What irony.

“I’m glad you want me to stay,” he says, full of honesty. “I want to stay.”

“Fuck,” you say in misery, “fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He furrows his brow at you. So you look down at him, and your vision goes a little hazy with tears, but you don’t allow them to fall. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

You take a shaky breath. “I just cheated on my fiance,” you say as the realization swoops in and tackles you, your heartspace filling with the buzz of having taken a route you can’t turn back from, and you think of the consequences. You feel like such a scumbag.

Neville looks guilty. Very, very guilty, but not guilty enough to regret it. You know you must look like you’re about to crack open with remorse and fucking hell, now you have to break up with Tim because of Neville fucking Longbottom, with his big thighs and arms and that hair that just won’t quit being so fucking gorgeous.

“I cheated too,” he whispers, rubbing your thigh. “My husband,” he clarifies, and your head snaps up and of course, you were so wrapped up in your own ego, looking at his arms and thighs, that you forgot about the husband and you look to his hand, the one on your thigh, and you see the ring on his finger, shiny and gold.

“Merlin’s cock in a box,” you groan, putting your head in your hands. “What did we just do?”

Neville ignores the rhetorical question and says, “I want you again. I don’t even care,” instead and it’s still so strange to hear Neville, valiant and resilient and sweet Neville, be such a wanton rogue.

Even after he’s had his fingers up your arse whilst he fucked you.

(Trust me Draco, you’ll never forget that experience)

“I have to leave Tim,” you mutter, your tone shocked at the thought of it, and the weight of the decision, the result of your actions. “I have to leave him, don’t I? I can’t be shagging you and then go and pretend nothing happened.”

“That’s up to you,” Neville says, and you look at him. Your hands drop to your thighs, your skinny fucking thighs where his big hands, one with a wedding ring, rub you comfortingly. The hands of a god, because with that body and that soul he is a god amongst men and you know it. You know it.

“You’re the best shag I have ever had,” you tell him, the words springing out of you unbidden, but they are there, because you want them there.

“I know,” he says casually, as if he hears it all the time.

You roll your eyes. “Bit assured of yourself, I see,” you tell him in response to his declaration. His confidence excites you and you think about him wanting you so your cock starts to fill. It’s filling for Neville Longbottom, a god amongst men, who is so big and muscled and insatiable. “Do all the people you cheat on your husband with tell you that?”

“I haven’t cheated on him before,” Neville says seriously. “Only with you. Only you.”

“Why?” you ask bluntly, ignoring any tones of sentiment.

“Why do I know I am the best you’ve ever had?” he asks cheekily, ignoring your later question in turn. “I think I have carnal magic,” he says, holding back a grin, and you bark a laugh. “I’m serious. I’m only good at two things. Plants and fucking.”

“I doubt those are your only two successes in life, Longbottom,” you reply with a sigh. “I want to know why you cheated on your husband with _me_.”

He comes to sit next to you on the bed. He holds your hand. “Maybe I should have taken you on a date first,” he comments eyes full of hindsight, and it’s an interesting idea he posits, because maybe, maybe, that would have been a good idea so you could have wrestled with the idea of letting his big cock slide in and out of you, getting you to the edge, his naughty directions pleasing you, _before_ you took him to bed. “But I wanted you now. I didn’t want to wait. How can _anyone_ wait for Draco Malfoy with the brilliant mind and those naughty, naughty jeans?”

You look at him with raised brows.

“Fucking hell. You looked at me; you considered me. And I saw you. And when you left to change at Harry’s party I felt like my night was over. Then you came back and Luna had already gotten fifty sentences in about you; chewing my ear off about how fucking wonderful you are, as she has been doing for years now, everytime she wrote or visited, and I was rude. Wasn’t I? I was rude to you. And you just went off to dance, and I just stayed watching you. And don’t think for a second,” he continues, “that I didn’t engineer the seating arrangements at Luna’s so you were forced to sit next to me. I can’t fucking resist you.”

“What about your husband?” you query after you have let his words, his sweet words, in because you’re desperate to know that you won’t be alone in ending a relationship because of this. You want more of _this_. You want more of _him_. You want to be covered in Neville Longbottom’s cum, over and over again. You want to know how much he can fill you up with and whether you can hold a whole load of it in your mouth or whether it will make you sputter; make it run down your chin before you can swallow the whole lot of it.

You especially want to know what else he can do with that carnal magic, and whether wanking you off is the only thing it materialises as.

He shakes his head, and moves to sit back against the headboard on your side of the bed. “I don’t know,” he says honestly.

You nod, because it hurts so much that he can do this and not leave his partner just like you have to. And you think to yourself how much better Neville Longbottom must have it; he has it all together, he’s so fucking poised.

“But,” he continues, “things haven’t been great for a while.”

And then it hits you. “Are you using me?”

“What?”

“Am I a thing you’re using?” You ask angrily.

“That I’m using?” he asks, voice full of disbelief. “You think I am using you because my marriage is bad?”

You want to spit the words out, but they come out defeated. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Honestly,” he gruffs, shaking his head, and you feel chided just by that one word alone. “My marriage is bad and likely to end with or without you. And fuck, fuck, I went about this the entirely wrong way! I should have approached you tomorrow. I should've just had coffee tonight, and not pushed you-”

“You didn’t push me,” you interrupt, voice soft. His words give you hope. Hope that you can, maybe, start seeing him, as a… well, as _something,_ just so it’s not all been for nothing. It has to mean something. It has to mean something that Neville, this god on your bed, has come to you and you let him in, literally. It means you have to be honorable now. “I wanted it. I wanted you to notice me. I was willing…” you admit.

You turn to look at him and he’s so big and so fucking stunning that you can’t help it. You go and straddle his hips. “That’s more like it,” he says, holding your hips, smiling wide.

“Maybe you should take me out,” you suggest with a devilish smile. “I can’t let this all be for nothing. I have to know that I could at least have a chance with you. If I can’t then I have fucked my whole life up for just a shag.”

His cock is hard again, which shouldn't be possible so soon after he’s unloaded on you like he did, and it's laying up against his belly, which he rolls you towards by pulling on your hips. “A date then,” he says. “After I edge you, all night. All fucking night. It’s your punishment for nicking my Remembrall,” He gives you a wink.

And you know, just by looking at him that this is not going to be a one time thing. He’s into you. He wants you. He’d had an interest in you just from what Luna’s told him and now he’s seen you, he’s chased you. You know this because he’s turned you inside out by ignoring you and then going straight for you. You know this because you have to, you absolutely have to, keep on discovering him. You know that you have to have that cock again, and it’s not just because he’s edged you, no. It’s because it’s Neville Longbottom’s cock.

And Neville Longbottom is a god amongst men.

X

In the morning you say goodbye to him. He leaves through the front door and you walk back to your bedroom, the one you share with Tim, the one you shared with Neville last night, when the doorbell rings. You go to it, wary, because you’re only in your pants, but you resolve to just stick your head round the door to see who it is.

And it’s Neville. Smiling. His smile is big and wide, showing his quirky but so attractive teeth, and your stomach flutters. You think you should ask him if he’s left something, but he asks to come in, and you let him, and then he leans down to kiss you.

“Take the day off,” he says huskily in a way that only Neville fucking Longbottom can. “Don’t go to work. Stay in bed with me all day.”

You giggle (you fucking _giggle_ even though you’re a grown man, but he makes your nerve endings tingle and it’s that feeling that leads to giggling, honestly) and shake your head, wooed by his enthusiasm. “Neville,” you begin to protest, but it’s hard because it’s so tempting. “I can’t.”

“Are you sure?” he questions, gathering you up into him closer. “Be daring, Draco…”

You laugh, and your arms come up around his neck, and you want him to stay, so fucking much. You want to be covered in his cum and you want to see him eat it off of you, and you want him to say sweet things to you again, even if this is moving fast. So, so fast.

Your sensibility wins out. “I think we should wait for our date.”

“We can date, later, tonight,” he says earnestly, clearly filled with the best intentions, but you’re having none of it.

“Exactly,” you say, “after I finish work.”

He sighs dramatically. “Alright baby,” he says, and fuck me Draco you just swoon at that term of endearment, because it’s just so… intimate. It’s familiar. He kisses you softly, hands running down your back to hold your arse, and he gently spreads your cheeks through your pants, and the sensation nearly ruins your resolve.

“Go,” you tell him breathlessly.

“Can I suck you first?” he asks, voice laden with eroticism and you laugh at it, because his eagerness is adorable.

And you’re nodding. “Yes, of course you can.”

You look down at that oversexed man on his knees, filled with carnal magic, a magic that sets him above anyone you have ever known, and realise that you’d be jealous of the attribute, if you weren’t getting to have it used on you.

He takes you into his mouth, and it’s a good couple of minutes of sucking, your hips bucking, your orgasm building before your resolve to go to work on time crumbles, and you ask him to take you back to bed.

So you’re late for work.

You don’t care.

You’ve just fucked Neville Longbottom, God Amongst Men (new official title, bestowed by yourself of course).

And you’re going to fuck him later too, and you’re going to date him, and I have to tell you Draco, that I think you’ve made a good choice.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a companion piece to this one from Neville's POV. It is in the works and shall be released soon, so do give me a subscribe so you don't miss it cause it's really cute and we get to see how Neville deals with his worries, and how he feels about Draco!
> 
> Kudos and comments are so welcome, and mean so much to me!


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